This shattered glass strewn around my feet, under my feet,
Glass that was once my leaping joyous joyful heart,
Shattered as I shared a last breath with my beloved.
Turned into a meat slicer roosting in my chest,
Where my heart once beat in rhythm with his.
His. Now forever stilled.
Still beating. Somehow, and mysteriously.
My heart that once beat with his, now shattered glass into glass dust strewn at my feet…
Tiny luminous particles of dust motes dancing in the air
Kicked up by my feet that still walk on this earth
Unbelievably but absolutely.
Uncertain yet determined feet that crunch loudly through the shattered glass powder under my feet,
Striding into this shattered glass dust life of his absence.
Glimmering glass dust motes swirling into the air…
Shimmery dust glass reflecting light back to me around me.
Shimmer and glimmer and beauty and pain and missing and Love…
Beating heart to shattered heart to glittering dust that, tenaciously and insistently,
Rises around me,
And illuminates my way~
There really is no explaining it
In words that either convey or make sense to anyone WIDOW
The depths of the word change daily and minute by minute
Depending on the day or the minute
In the beginning, it means devastation conflagration incineration annihilation
Each of those feeling remain or don’t,
Depending on the day or the minute
It’s going to bed alone and leaving the TV or radio on low so that the hum of voices distracts you as you wake through the night and if you don’t have the distraction your mind hums with memories and the grief that no more memories will ever be made.
Grasping his pillow close and arranging your body sometimes unconsciously to the side you slept when you slept with him so that he could curl his body around you his arm curving under you his other arm draping over you his hand curled around your breast.
It’s waking each morning and wishing that you could have that unsuspecting moment that you’re waking to your old life like you hear people speak about but your body and mind are instantly aware that he’s still dead and this is another morning and you’re exhausted because your mind has been going all night long even when you slept but really didn’t sleep.
And you make the decision to get up anyways because you can’t just lay abed endlessly, right?
Go through a morning routine getting ready shower don’t cry or yes, do cry try to push away the thoughts that I just can’t do this again but you do it again anyways because what other choice is there?
Breakfast even though you really aren’t hungry but what does hunger have to do with eating its habit more than anything or eat because you aren’t hungry but you have to do something and the clock says breakfast time and you eat but you don’t taste because food doesn’t matter to you anymore.
It’s going through your day whatever your day used to mean but now doesn’t except that distractions help sometimes but not really because there underneath everything is your new pulsebeat of dead dead dead he’s gone gone gone.
Try to get home early if you’re out because there’s just something about that time of the early evening that makes missing him more powerful than all the powerful moments of the earlier part of the day. Once you get home wherever home is now home was when I was with him wander around the kitchen the bedroom the house turn the TV on for noise eat food out of the fridge because who cares eat junk.
Go to bed because you need the day to end or don’t go to bed because you can’t bear being alone in bed so sleep on the couch somehow the back of the couch against your back helps you feel more secure.
One season follows another and the days drift and bend and each season carries its’ own cuts and bruises of remembrance and oh he would love the colors of the flowers the trees the snow the ocean that gust of wind feel that feeling in the air and he isn’t here and my soul can’t bear this beauty and I’m not ignoring the beauty but the beauty hurts because I’m seeing it feeling it being it on my own and that cuts into me again like a chain saw.
We’re supposed to be grateful we had what we had and I am and we’re complimented on being so strong and I am but also exhausted from being strong encouraged to remember and I do but what does that have to do with anything I wonder and told that look you have your kids and your grandkids and your life and other people who love you and I do and I know that but what the fuck does that have to do with anything and how on god’s green earth does any of that change anything or make up for anything most especially the fact that for god’s sake he’s dead?
What do you say when there are no words in our language to fully and really and completely tell you that I say what I need to say and do what I need to do and I’m whatever I need to be to meet this fucking real life challenge but none of it means a damn thing and I’m not pretending anything to anyone but life does fucking go on and I have to support myself and shop and do all the daily tasks that constitute living but if you really really really want to know the truth with no qualifications and no prevarications…
My heart is broken and I’m not really strong and I hate living without him and life is unbearable and I’ve run out of words and I have no energy for this and I’m really not okay but I have to be okay so I try to be okay but my soul inside this body that shows up every day even as I’m doing and talking and going through each day is just missing him as he is missing from me and it hurts and there isn’t one damn thing that doesn’t remind me of him including the very act of breathing. And all the milestones and holidays and anniversaries and birthdays amid the everydays make me miss him even more and I want nothing more than to be held by him feel his arms around me his lips on mine feel safe again feel secure again dance with him sleep with him have wild sex with him wake with him share nothing and everything important with him live again knowing how special I am to someone in this life just have him back please please please…
Be his wife his lover again.
Not his widow.
I will sing you to me.
As the days and moments and years pass by,
I will sing you to me.
As I gaze up at the mighty Universe each night,
From wherever my pink trailer happens to park,
I will sing you to me.
And as my heart wanders this land,
Seeking you, not finding you
But wishing desperately to connect with you and to you,
Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere,
I will sing you to me.
The words of Love our hearts exchanged
As we lived our years and our Love story,
I will sing you to me.
Where are you, my dearest Love?
On this night when the veil lifts between me and you…
Where are you?
As my hand reaches through the veil,
As my heart bleeds for you
And I lightly touch your picture your compass your wallet your moustache comb
Seeking to feel your presence again,
I will sing you to me.
As our music drifts lightly into the night air and my feet move slowly in remembered steps and my hands lift to just the right height, where the breadth of your shoulders wait for my touch,
And I ghost dance with you under these stars in this Universe in the world you left, where I am now, without you, my dearest Love,
Through the years and the moments and the days that stretch into Forever…
Into the Forever, my dearest Love, where you exist and I don’t,
My body will move with you and, yes,
I will sing you to me, always.
Forever sing you to me into the Forever of Time…
But don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you owe it to your kids to remember you as happy? Life is supposed to be happy. Maybe you’re depressed. Don’t you want to be happy?
If you’re a widow/er, then you’ve heard the same questions and comments. I know you have. Or, if you’re public about your grief, as I am, you hear it from the general public. Less frequently, possibly, as the years pass. But you hear it. Such comments were more prominent somewhere in the second half of my 3rd year. Apparently, if one is still grieving in the 3rd year, bells of doubt start ringing in the minds of those around you, whispering words like depression complicated grief not moving on not getting on with it medications therapy etc…
I’m embarrassed to admit that, upon hearing these comments (and let’s be honest, it’s thinly veiled criticism because it comes across exactly as it sounds: a judgement, as if I’m doing something wrong), I initially and inevitably ended up defending myself, and trying to explain myself, even as I knew I had no reason to defend myself. But those words made me feel defensive and attacked. So, I defended.
No longer. No. Longer.
Guess what? I’m perfectly content with my legacy. If I were to die right now, this fucking minute, I’d have zero regrets. None. Nada. Zero.
And I owe my kids nothing, because they already have all the Love in the world from me.
I know exactly how my kids will remember me and I know what my kids will remember about me. Whether I die today, or tomorrow or years from now. Our mom was THE most kickass mom ever. She and pop had a Love story for the ages. They sold everything and traveled the country together and remember when we’d call them up we’d ask them where are you now? She nursed him with so much Love through his first cancer and they kept on traveling and when the cancer came back, she did it all again, and bigger. She ensured that all of us had one on one time with him in hospice and she honored and supported us through our own grief, even as she grieved. She bought a trailer after he died and painted it and her car pink and she dressed in pink and she drove all over the entire fucking country, honoring him and their Love and connecting with people everywhere. She was a connector. She inspired people. She was colorful and crazy and she was the Love Warrior and a Fucking Warrior Goddess and she did all that while she was grieving because she loved pop so much and her life felt empty without him and she fucking did it all anyways. She left an example to all of us and to her grandkids about determination and grit and Love. She cried and she laughed and none of it meant anything and all of it meant everything and she lived when she didn’t want to live and she talked to us honestly about the impact of his death on her and she loved hard because Love was all that was left amid the ashes of her life when pop died. She was unapologetic about her grief and her Love and she lived in spite of it and with it. And we are proud of who she was and what she was because she was real and being real was all that mattered. She was a Fucking Warrior Goddess.
No. I have no qualms about the memories I’ll leave behind for my kids, or for anyone else who might remember me.
My epitaph will read Here lies a woman who lived the duality of Love and Grief, who made everything around her shimmer and sparkle with Love, with a shattered heart, and she did it all in pink. She was a Fucking Warrior Goddess.
Of course you’ll always miss your husband…..
It’s the but that you can read into those little dots at the end of that sentence that contain the crux of what the person is really saying.
….don’t hang onto the grief…. ….it’s your decision to be happy or not…. …..if you’re still struggling with grief, maybe you should go on medications….
Add to this whatever you wish.
And what I want to say to those who put those periods at the end of that sentence is…..
Don’t you know that, for me, this is what missing my husband looks like?
Do you know what skin hunger feels like…
Do you know what it feels like to have your world ripped out from underneath you, from around you, from over you…
Do you know what I mean when I say that there is not one damn thing in my life, or life around me, that is the same as it was and that, all by itself, is overwhelming…
How can I explain in any way that is understandable what it is like physically to feel my energy yawning out of my body, into the air, and know that it’s simply lingering there because there is nobody to receive it…
Do you know how confusing it is to be told by so many, professionals and otherwise, that grief is as individual as a fingerprint and there is no timeline….and then feel the judgement that, well, of course there isn’t one but it’s been this long this long this long and you should be finding joy and happiness again….
Do you get that I shared a lifetime of love and marriage with my husband, with shared practical responsibilities, as is normal, and there is a steep learning curve as I strive, as quickly as possible, to know what one half of our marriage knew and now that he’s gone, all of what he knew is gone and I’m doing this at a time when grief fogs my memory…
How do I find the words that express the depth of the sorrow that is in my heart that my beloved husband is dead and my world is empty without him…not because I’m depressed or hanging on in an unhealthy way or anything like that but just, simply, sorrowful and heart heavy, and it’s normal that I feel this way…
What words will help you understand that when my beloved husband died, it wasn’t a simple unweaving and unraveling of a life lived with me but a ripping apart and shredding and now I must weave his death into whatever new life I must I am creating and that it can, that it might, that I expect it to, take a lifetime and that’s okay too…
And all that needs be said in response is….tell me about your beloved husband….tell me a story of him and your love….
And that will always, truly and honestly, be enough and it will feed my hurting soul….
I oftentimes read posts/blogs of people who are grieving who speak about how they feel, after some time has passed, presenting themselves to the world in a way that isn’t real but that they feel is required of them.
In that, they don’t show their grief to the world. For many reasons, of course, but they feel unable to show who they really are. Which I totally understand.
Our world is unforgiving of grief that continues on for more than, say….6 months. Okay, maybe a year, if you find some really empathetic people.
Other than other widow/ers, I mean.
I do get that argument. We have to function, right? Life goes on and we have to return to jobs and parenting and, I don’t know…everything.
And you just can’t be in a fetal position on the floor, or sobbing in your cubicle, or at the lunch table. Or anywhere in public.
What I would argue is that those of us who present The Face to the world aren’t being fake. We really aren’t.
We’re being functional.
It’s all still in there, bubbling right below the surface, humming along our veins as our blood pumps from our hearts to the rest of our bodies. It isn’t that we’re stuffing it down, really. I liken it more to the idea of applying pressure to a wound in an effort to keep the blood from spurting out. We apply pressure to hold down the grief so that we can get our days done, our responsibilities…stuff and such.
We laugh if something is funny, we engage with the people we meet throughout our daytime hours. Because that’s what life is and we’re still alive.
What I’ve found, for me at least, is that I can be what I just described, on any given day. And every bit of it is authentic.
It’s just that, since Chuck died, even while I do all that, I’m also dying inside. Missing him. Wishing him. Wanting him. Sharply feeling his absence. His gone-ness. Feeling empty. Even as I smile and engage with people, the hum in my blood, through my veins, with each pump of my heart, is….he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone.
I am two people since Chuck died. Here and not here. Smiling outside and crying inside at the same time. Paying attention and hearing you and listening to my own inner conversation at the same time.
Both of these me’s are real and both show up daily.
This may freak out those of you who have never lived in this widow world, but I’m strangely okay with it, in my world of nothing being okay. And honestly, I can handle this dichotomy, because I’m a Gemini.
I’m one person and I’m two people at the same time. I don’t stuff any of the grief down. It’s just that one of the me’s is the functioning out in the world person, and the other one is the me who is….I don’t even know.
But both of these me’s are real in every way.
My fingers lightly grazed your arm,
Hairs tickling sensitive tips.
They slid along your shoulders,
Feeling their breadth and strength.
My hips tucked themselves into yours,
As we slept.
Your arm curled behind your back
To pull me more snugly into you.
Our bodies tucked and curved into one another, one passion filled night after another.
Toes touching as we drifted to sleep. Or pinkie fingers twined together. Hands clasped.
We always touched as we nodded off into dreams. How long ago is forever?
My body moves restlessly through these without you nights,
In this widow life…
Pillows tucked into my own curves,
My hips, my breasts, seeking your body.
My head rests upon your 15-year old pillow.
Will I, at some point, feel the imprint of your head there,
My one arm curls under the pillow, hand stretched out to the side,
As my legs tuck up, as if into yours.
One hand reaches out to the rectangular box covered with images of you alive and healthy,
Pictures with edges curling from time and wear.
So easily could I lift the top and dig my hands inside to free the gray ashes…what remains of you…
Dig my hands into the mix of gray remains and dead flowers,
Spread them upon the cushions where I sleep,
And coat my lonely body, in what remains of you.
But I don’t.
That would be weird. Right?
My other hand comes to rest on a shape that I trace as a triangle. Red white and blue.
A simple triangle.
I see it in my mind’s eye, in the darkness, this triangle that has traveled so many miles with me.
Fingertips slide along the neat edges of the hem along one side. This part is blue.
They glide upwards to the tip and follow it down to find a raised star shape. This part is white.
I spell out s-t-a-r as I brush the shape lightly…
There is the very slight sound of a paper crinkling…a note you gave me in our early years, found after your death and tucked into a fold of the triangle. Sunshine…like a beautiful flower, you always warm my heart. With love always, Sarge.
A small round disc makes a faint outline through the fabric…
A USAF coin, gifted to our son in Basic Training, gifted to me by our son. MSgt Dearing. Recognition. Memory. Honor.
I confess…sometimes my arms pull that triangle into my chest
As I seek elusive slumber,
And my mind drifts back to our nights together, bodies curved into one another.
No worry about the tears blinding my eyes; the dark night has already done that.
No stopping the stitching spasms rocking my heart and soul.
It’s night, and I can let the feels be whatever they may be.
I clutch the colors more tightly to my chest,
Try to soften the tension in my body and let my mind drift, drift, drift…
Back to all of our nights and our days and nights again as our years played one into the other,
And I was loved, and I loved.
My body curls into yours in my dreams…
And I drift….